The only sound was a dog barking, far away somewhere up on
the hills, or when the door of the little restaurant in the piazza
below was opened and there was a burst of voices, silenced again
immediately by the swinging to of the door.
She drew in a deep breath of pleasure. Ah, this was--
Her deep breath was arrested in the middle. What was that?
She leaned forward listening, her body tense.
Footsteps. On the zigzag path. Briggs. Finding her out.
Should she run?
No--the footsteps were coming up, not down. Some one from the
village. Perhaps Angelo, with provisions.
She relaxed again. But the steps were not the steps of Angelo,
that swift and springy youth; they were slow and considered, and they
kept on pausing.
"Some one who isn't used to hills," thought Scrap.
The idea of going back to the house did not occur to her. She
was afraid of nothing in life except love. Brigands or murderers as
such held no terrors for the daughter of the Droitwiches; she only
would have been afraid of them if they left off being brigands and
murderers and began instead to try and make love.
The next moment the footsteps turned the corner of her bit of
path, and stood still.
"Getting his wind," thought Scrap, not looking round.
Then as he--from the sounds of the steps she took them to belong
to a man--did not move, she turned her head, and beheld with
astonishment a person she had seen a good deal of lately in London, the
well-known writer of amusing memoirs, Mr.
Pages:
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296